


The Rome Olympiad Affair

by Avery11



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen, Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 15:40:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>THRUSH is planning mischief at the 1960 Rome Olympics, and Illya has been sent by UNCLE's London HQ to stop them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rome Olympiad Affair

 

 

 **Rome, Italy – Wednesday, August 24, 1960.**  

Illya stepped off the BOAC jet, shielding his eyes against the blazing Roman sun. He smiled and waved along with the rest of the British Olympic team, using the opportunity to scan the large and enthusiastic crowd for signs of THRUSH.  

"Bloody hell!” hissed Jaspar Endicott, Illya's teammate in the four-by-two-hundred free, “it's like a sauna out here. You'd think the powers-that-be would have considered the temperatures when they designed our uniforms. I mean really -- wool! Five minutes in this heat and I'm positively sopping!” He tugged miserably at his tie.

Illya glanced without enthusiasm at the navy blue blazer and grey wool slacks that constituted the team uniform. “It could be worse,” he shrugged.

“I'll bite -- how?”

Illya gestured toward the marching band standing at attention on the shimmering tarmac. As if on cue the musicians, red-faced and sweating, segued into an earnest -- if slightly off-key -- version of _God Save the Queen._ Their epaulettes swayed like suspension bridges as they played, the candy-colored plumes atop their helmets bobbing comically in time to the music. The sousaphone player, a plump, dyspeptic fellow, looked on the verge of passing out.

Endicott groaned. “Good Lord, I see what you mean.”

At a signal from their IOC liaison, the athletes descended the stairs to the tarmac, where they shook hands with the Mayor of Rome and accepted bouquets of flowers from a group of freshly scrubbed schoolchildren. When it was Illya's turn, a child of five or six stepped forward, bowing, and handed him a nosegay of red and white carnations tied with a green ribbon. _“Bienvenuto a Roma, signore. Buona fortuna.”_

 _“Grazie, mio piccolo amico,”_ Illya replied solemnly. _“Avrò bisogno.”_

The child grinned in relief, his duty discharged, and stepped gratefully back into line.

The athletes began to make their way toward the terminal, flanked by the chanting, cheering crowd. Illya continued to scan his surroundings, alert for any sign of trouble. It was unlikely that the enemy would choose to strike here, but still, it never hurt to be --

 _There! those two security officers!_ Illya's eyes narrowed. _THRUSH, by the look of them. Not the brainless goons the Hierarchy usually sent, either. Senior agents._ Judging by the bulges under their jackets, the pair was exceedingly well-armed, and looked as though they meant business.

He picked out another THRUSH hiding among the crush of journalists covering the team's arrival. This one was attempting to masquerade as a photographer, but the fool had forgotten to take the lens cap off his camera -- an oversight that marked the man as careless. _Not long for this life,_ Illya thought wryly.

As they neared the entrance to the terminal, he spotted two more THRUSH disguised as baggage handlers. Under their coveralls they, too, were armed to the teeth.

Illya sighed. It looked like UNCLE's fears were justified -- THRUSH was planning mischief here at the Games.

“Quite a jolly welcome!” Endicott shouted over the din. “Couldn't you just die?”

Glancing back at the five THRUSH agents, Illya acknowledged that it was, indeed, quite a welcome. He hoped fervently to avoid the dying part. 

*/*/*/ 

The Olympic Village was a sprawling complex of modern apartments situated on the banks of the Tiber River, overlooking the _Stadio Olimpico_. Nearly eight-thousand athletes, the cream of the crop from eighty-four nations, would call the Village home for the next two weeks.

Illya and his teammates endured the lengthy IOC registration process with typical British fortitude. When it was over, the men hauled their luggage up the four flights of stairs to their assigned rooms. The women's team, however, was herded onto yet another bus, this one consigned to transport them across the _Via Veneto_ to separate, Females Only facilities -- an attempt by the IOC organizers to minimize inappropriate fraternization of the sexes during the Games.

“As if mere distance could keep us apart!” Jaspar Endicott remarked cheerfully. “I vote we go and visit our dear, cloistered Sisters In Sport -- in case they're bored, I mean. Or in need of liberating. Who's with me? Bennett? Finchley?”

“I'm in,” Tommy Bennett declared, slipping on his loafers. “There's this cute little gymnast on the Canadian Team --”

“Finchley?”

Illya shook his head. “You chaps go ahead,” he declared in a perfect upper-crust British accent. “I want to unpack and have a bit of a nap before supper.”

“A _nap?”_ Endicott's jaw dropped. “You do realize this is the Olympics, don't you, Davey? A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You didn't come all the way to Rome just to sleep, did you?”

“Of course not. I came to win a medal, preferably a gold one. Practice begins at six A.M. tomorrow morning, and the competition starts the day after that. I want to be well rested.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Finchley! You can sleep when you're dead. Come on, it'll be fun.”

“Another time.”

Endicott grabbed his camera. “Well, I'm certainly not going to waste the opportunity,” he crowed cheerfully. “Come on, Tommy, let's see if some of the other fellows are keen to join us.”

Amid much back-slapping and raucous commentary, the men departed.

The moment Illya was alone, he began a painstaking search of their quarters, upending cots, peeling back the carpet and rifling through his roommates' belongings. Twenty minutes later, he was satisfied that Jaspar and Tommy were exactly who they claimed to be, and that there were no listening devices, hidden cameras or booby traps lurking in the bedding or concealed beneath the floorboards, waiting to spoil his afternoon. He stretched out upon the narrow bed and assembled his cigarette case communicator. “Open Channel D, overseas, London, scramble.

“Beldon here,” the voice responded. “What have you to report, Mr. Kuryakin?”

“I have arrived in Rome, sir. Unfortunately, so has THRUSH. They are here in numbers, and definitely up to something.”

A pause. “Are you sure, Mr. Kuryakin? Perhaps they're merely spectators in town to enjoy the Games.” In the background, a woman giggled.

Illya bit back an impatient retort. “Sir, there were five THRUSH waiting for me at the airport -- all well-armed, including two senior agents. I do not think they are here to visit the Vatican.”

“Did they approach you? Threaten you in any way?”

“No sir. They seemed content to observe.”

“Hmm.” Another pause. “Their purpose?”

“Unknown as yet.”

The sound of ice cubes clinking in a glass. “Yes, well, I suppose you're right to be concerned, Mr. Kuryakin. Continue to observe the situation, and keep me informed of your progress. You are to do nothing -- I repeat, nothing -- without a direct order from me. Is that clear?”

Illya sighed. “Yes sir.”

“We have agents in place at each of the venues in case you run into trouble. Use the code phrase “'Do you have a 1957 Sputnik pin to trade?' to identify yourself. The response is 'Those are very rare. Can I interest you in a vintage pin from the '36 Games?'”

Illya committed the phrases to memory. “Is there anything else I should be doing, sir?”

Beldon's roaring laugh rumbled across the airwaves. “Patience, Mr. Kuryakin. All in good time. I imagine when THRUSH makes its move, you'll be the first to hear about it. Beldon, out.”

“That,” Illya muttered to his silent communicator, “is precisely what I am afraid of.”

*/*/*/ 

As night fell, Illya began his reconnaissance of the city, familiarizing himself with the locations and access points leading to and from the various venues.

His own event, the four-by-two-hundred meter freestyle relay, would be held at the nearby _Stadio del Nuoto --_ the Aquatic Stadium. Practices would be at the training pool in the _Foro Italico_ , the faux Roman sports palace built by Benito Mussolini. Within a five mile radius were a dozen other venues, including the _Stadio Olimpico_ (track and field events), the Basilica of Maxentius (wrestling), and the Caracalla Baths (gymnastics). Then there were the outdoor events -- the sailing competition, which would be held in the Bay of Naples, the crew events, located at Lake Albano, and the shooting competition being staged at the Cesano Infantry School, an hour's drive north of the city. He wondered how UNCLE would ever be able to monitor them all.

As he wandered down the _Via delle Tre Fontane_ , he spied one of his UNCLE contacts descending the wide marble staircase of the _Palazzo dei Congressi_. Stepping back into the shadow of a nearby building, Illya watched the man look left, and then right. He consulted a crumpled map, and turned toward the Via Tintoretto.

 _Scusi, signore,_ do you have a 1957 Sputnik pin to trade?”

Napoleon Solo looked up, and his eyes lit with recognition. “Those are very rare,” he recited. “Would you be interested in a vintage pin from the '36 Games?”

“Only if it comes with better code phrases.”

Napoleon laughed. “Yeah, sometimes the guys in Cryptography can be pretty corny.” He held out his hand. “Napoleon Solo. We met in London last year.”*

“Yes, I remember.” He took Napoleon's hand, found it warm and firm.

“Good to see a friendly face for a change. I've been tracking a couple of THRUSH couriers for the better part of an afternoon. I swear, they're coming out of the woodwork for these Games.”

“THRUSH does seem to be everywhere. I counted five agents at the airport this morning. Mr. Beldon does not seem unduly concerned by their presence, but --”

“-- but that's a lot of THRUSH for just your average reconnaissance.” Napoleon glanced around the crowded _piazza._ “Listen, I haven't eaten a thing since breakfast. Why don't we find someplace where we can sit down and grab a bite? We can compare notes while we eat.”

They found a cozy _trattoria_ off the _Via Marghera_ , and chose an outside table under the pergola. They ordered iced Campari, garnished with a wedge of fresh lemon, while they perused the menu. Illya decided on the _fettuccini_ , which the waiter promised would be served _al dente;_ Napoleon, the mussels _fra diavolo._

“We should probably get our cover stories straight,” Napoleon suggested once the waiter had gone, “in case we run into somebody we know.”

“Of course. My passport lists me as David Finchley of Kingston-Upon-Hull, an alternate on the British Swim Team,”

“Nice accent,” Napoleon chuckled. “Although I'm a bit surprised your superiors didn't make use of your gymnastics training for this mission.”

“I am too well known in Soviet gymnastics circles -- someone would have recognized me before very long. As a swimmer, I can remain anonymous.” He sipped his Campari, enjoying the bitter taste of the pomegranates. “And you?”

“Charlie Cooper of Des Moines, Iowa, a pole vault coach for the U.S. Track and Field Team. I competed in the pole vault in college, so the role isn't too much of a stretch.”

Illya filed the information away. “Do we know anything regarding the nature of the threat?”

“Only that it involves the testing of some new type of weaponry.”

He looked up sharply. “Another doomsday device?”

“Let's hope not. With so many tourists crowding into Rome for the Games, I shudder to think of how many innocent people might be hurt.”

Their entrees arrived just then -- steaming bowls of pasta, and mussels simmering in a fragrant, spicy sauce. The waiter uncorked a bottle of _chianti_ to accompany the dishes, and set it on the table along with two glasses. The agents nodded their thanks, and proceeded to attack their meals with gusto. The pasta was every bit as good as the waiter had promised, and Napoleon's mussels were exquisitely fresh and tender.

 On a lighter topic,” Napoleon inquired between bites, “what's it like, working in the London Office? Quite a change from Cambridge, I imagine.”

“I have learned a great deal in my year there. Sir Winston runs a tight ship.”

“That he does. And Harry Beldon? He mentors the new agents for Sir Winston, doesn't he?”

Illya hesitated. “I -- have no complaints.”

Napoleon's eyebrows rose. “That's not exactly a ringing endorsement,” he replied carefully.

Illya shrugged.

“Forgive me. If you'd rather not discuss it --”

“No, it is all right,” he sighed. “It is merely that I find his rampant self-indulgence rather distasteful. And he tends to micromanage every mission. However, the man is undeniably brilliant, and no one knows more about Eastern Europe than he does. There are rumors that he will be tapped to take over the Berlin desk, now that Oppenheimer is retiring.”

“Yes, I'd heard that, too.”

They finished their meals, and lingered awhile over the wine, watching the throngs of revelers strolling by. The cobbled streets were jammed with tourists, and the atmosphere was a festive one. If it wasn't for the threat of imminent catastrophe, it would have been a beautiful night.

“We should start heading back,” Napoleon said at last. “We don't want to miss curfew, and I've still got a report to file with Mr. Waverly.”

They wandered back along the _Via Flaminia,_ and parted at the edge of the Tiber, judging it unwise to be seen entering the Olympic Village together.

 _“Buona notte,”_ Napoleon called as he crossed the _Corso di Francia_. “Get some rest. And try and stay out of trouble.”

“Where is the fun in that?” Illya replied, smiling.  

*/*/*/

**Thursday, August 25th**   

 The Opening Ceremony began the following afternoon in a kaleidoscope of color and pageantry. As the parade of nations began, the setting sun dipped behind the trees, throwing the stadium into shadow. A cool breeze sprang up, blessed relief after another day of scorching heat. The stadium lights came on.

Greece entered first, followed by Afghanistan, Antilles, Argentina and Australia. One after another, the athletes of eighty-four nations filed into the wide, white bowl of the _Stadio Olimpico_. Illya marched alongside his British teammates, waving the miniature Union Jacks the team had been given _._ His uniform concealed a veritable arsenal of advanced weaponry.

 Iceland entered, followed by India, the athletes of the subcontinent looking elegant in their _saris_ and _churidars_. Tiny Liechtenstein's delegation of five athletes marched in proudly, flanked by the Netherlands' massive contingent in their bright orange blazers -- the Dutch had sent more than a hundred athletes to Rome.

Norway. Panama. Pakistan. Peru. On and on they came. The grassy area in the center of the stadium began to fill. Surinam. Switzerland. Tunisia. Music blared from the loudspeakers as the crowd roared its welcome. Vietnam. Yugoslavia. Flashbulbs popped by the thousands, spectators trying to capture the moment on their new Kodak cameras. The sound was remarkably like gunfire.

Italy, the host country, was the final delegation to enter the stadium, and their arrival set off a roar of patriotic good will like nothing Illya had ever experienced. The applause was deafening.

“This is bloody amazing!” Jaspar Endicott shouted over the noise of the crowd. “These Italians certainly know how to throw a party!”

Illya nodded absently, and scanned the crowded stadium with renewed vigilance. If THRUSH planned to strike, it would be soon.

The Olympic flag was raised to the dulcet tones of _L'Hymne Olympique,_ sung in true _Belle Epoque_ fashion by a choir of lovely maidens clad in togas _._ Fireworks exploded in the sky above the stadium, and church bells rang throughout the city, a joyous tumble of sounds that filled the air with their song. A flock of doves, symbolizing the Games' philosophy of peace through sport, circled the stadium once, twice, three times, before winging away.

Spotlights arced here and there among the spectators, briefly illuminating entire sections of the stadium. One of the spotlights came to rest upon a portion of the grandstand directly adjacent to the main dais.

Illya gasped. _Marton. Gervaise. Partridge, Egret. THRUSH's elite, gathered together in a rare -- and highly suspicious -- show of unity. Waiting._

He noticed Napoleon edging his way toward the dais. his body tense, prepared for action. He had seen them, too.

Illya shifted uneasily on the balls of his feet, adrenaline flooding his system, heart rate accelerating as his body prepared itself for battle. He wondered if this was the moment they had feared, the moment when THRUSH would show their hand. He took several calming breaths, and felt his mind shift into hyper-awareness as years of training kicked in. He slipped his hand inside his jacket, found his Walther, flicked the safety off.

The lights dimmed. As the music soared to a crescendo, the Olympic torch entered the stadium, completing the final leg of its long journey from Mount Olympus to Rome. The runner circled the track, propelled on by the cheers of his countrymen, and mounted the steps to the Olympic cauldron. He saluted the crowd, extended his arm and touched the torch to the edge of the copper bowl, igniting the fuel. Flames rose dramatically into the night sky.

IOC President Avery Brundage administered the traditional Oath of Sportsmanship, the Prime Minister of Italy delivered a speech welcoming the world to the Eternal City, and suddenly the Opening Ceremony was over. The athletes and their delegations filed slowly from the stadium, laughing and talking with one another. The event had gone off without a hitch, and THRUSH had not struck.

Illya caught sight of Napoleon exiting the stadium along with the other members of the U.S. delegation. The senior agent lifted his shoulders in a subtle gesture of bewilderment that precisely mirrored Illya's own confusion.

Filing out with the rest of the audience, Victor Gervaise doffed his hat and waved. 

*/*/*/  

Napoleon sat on the steps of the _Gallerìa Borghese_ , wondering what the hell he was going to tell Waverly. He took a moment to adjust the volume knob on his communicator, stalling for time.

Illya noted the senior agent's hesitation. “It will not get any better,” he suggested gently.

Napoleon sighed. “Open Channel D, overseas, scramble.”

“Waverly here,” came the curt reply. “What the devil is going on over there, Mr. Solo? You're two hours overdue.”

“Sorry, Sir. It's been an eventful night.”

“Oh?”

“We had a little visit from Victor Gervaise. Also Victor Marton, Emory Partridge and Doctor Egret.”

“All four of them? _Together?_ Good heavens!” The sound of a match being struck; a delicate chuffing sound followed. “Were you able to apprehend them?”

“No, Sir. They were gone by the time our agents arrived on the scene.”

“Not your best work, I dare say, Mr. Solo.” More chuffing. “Have you managed to make any progress at all?”

“Not much. Whatever THRUSH is planning, they're being awfully tight-lipped about it. We have no leads, not a single clue as to where or when THRUSH plans to strike.”

“Distressing. Most distressing. Do you have _anything_ useful to report?”

“I wish I did.” Napoleon hesitated. “THRUSH had a perfect opportunity to launch their attack tonight. Forty-two Heads of State in attendance, and over twenty-thousand people in the stands. Talk about a captive audience.”

“Be thankful nothing _did_ happen, Mr. Solo,” Waverly retorted sharply, “or you would be dealing with an inconvenient number of dead bodies right now, not to mention who knows what other treachery THRUSH may have planned.”

“Yes Sir,” Napoleon replied, chastened. “You're right, of course. It's just that we're on pins and needles, waiting for them to show their hand. Not to mention Victor Gervaise and the rest of the THRUSH elite sitting there, bold as could be, rubbing our noses in it --”

“Tactics intended to throw you off your game, as I'm sure you realize.” On the other side of the world, Waverly sighed, a long, drawn-out susurration. “I feel certain THRUSH plans to act soon. Get to the bottom of their scheme, Mr. Solo, and put a stop to it before it's too late. Earn your salary. Waverly, out.”

Napoleon disassembled his communicator. “Well, that went well.”

Illya shrugged. “My conversation with Beldon was not much better. He wants me out at the Bay of Naples tomorrow afternoon.”

“All the way out there? Why?”

“It seems one of his moles is suggesting the possibility of an attack on Crown Prince Constantine of Greece. The future King is apparently competing in the Dragon Class of the yachting event.”

Napoleon's eyes lit with excitement. “Illya, this could be the break we've been waiting for. If we know the target is Prince Constantine, we can --” He frowned. “So why don't you look happy?”

“I am -- not certain the information can be trusted.”

“You doubt _Beldon?”_ Napoleon could not have looked more shocked.

“No, of course not. Beldon is Section One -- his loyalty is without question. It is his informant I do not trust. Beldon assures me that his source is trustworthy -- a mole he has used often over the years. Still, I am uneasy.”

Napoleon's eyes narrowed. “Any particular reason?”

“Merely a feeling. I do not think the Crown Prince is THRUSH's target. He is not important enough to matter in the scheme of things. And the Bay of Naples is several hours away. If something were to happen here in Rome, I could not get back in time to help.”

“Well, if it'll put your mind at ease, I can cover the swimming venue for you tomorrow. Track and Field events don't start until next week, so I'll have the day off.”

“I would feel better if you were there,” Illya admitted. “The thought of leaving the venue unguarded worries me.”

“Don't worry. I'm sure Beldon knows what he's doing.”

Illya nodded, but he looked troubled.

“Besides, you know what they say: 'Ours not to reason why --'”

“'Ours but to do and die.'” He scowled. “I hate Tennyson.” 

*/*/*/ 

**Friday, August 26th**  

 

Illya knotted his tie for the third time that morning, wondering why today of all days, he should have a problem executing a simple half-Windsor. He pulled the wide end through, held the narrow end, and tightened the knot. Too short this time. _“Hooy na postnom maslye!”_ He stripped off the tie with a growl, and began again.

“Hey, Finchley!” someone called from the hallway, “telephone for you.”

“Be right there,” he answered, slipping back into his role. He threw the crumpled tie onto the bed and padded into the hall, anxious to find out who would be calling him on a public telephone. He lifted the receiver to his ear. “Hello?”

“Mr. Finchley?”

“Yes?”

“This is Alistair Smythe-Jones of the British Olympic Committee. I have some good news for you, young man.”

“Oh?”

Smythe-Jones cleared his throat. “It seems that your roommate, Thomas Bennett, managed to break his hip falling down a flight of stairs in the women's dormitory last night. As a consequence, he is unable to compete in his event. That means that you, as the team's alternate, will be competing for your country in the four-by-two-hundred meter freestyle relay this morning. Congratulations, Mr. Finchley.”

“This morning? But sir, I --”

“The qualifying round begins in just under an hour _._ Don't be late, young man. Your country is counting on you.”

“But --”

The line went dead.

As Illya stared at the silent receiver, there came a pounding of footsteps on the stairs. Jaspar Endicott burst onto the scene.

“Finchley, I just heard! Too bad for Tommy, but ye gods, man, what luck for you! Grab your gear and let's go. You can just make it if you hurry.”

Illya swiftly calculated his options. If he swam his leg of the race slowly enough to result in a poor qualifying time, it would take the British team out of contention, freeing him from having to compete in the afternoon's semifinal heat. In doing so, however, he would be quashing the dreams of his teammates, who would forfeit the race if he failed to appear. He sighed. Beldon would have to find someone else to go to Naples.

He forced a smile. “Give me five minutes, old chap. Looks like I've got a race to swim.”  

*/*/*/ 

  
The _Stadio del Nuoto,_ with just three-hundred seats, was one of the smaller Olympic venues, but it was packed to the rafters for the opening day of the swimming competition. The building was sleek and modern, with massive floor to ceiling windows made of thick thermal glass. A hand painted fresco on the far wall depicted Neptune and his court of sea nymphs cavorting with various denizens of the deep. The newly installed air conditioning system kept the place pleasantly cool, and the domed outer roof could be retracted to expose the inner skylight, or closed against the scorching summer sun, as it was on this steamy day.      

The British team was scheduled to swim in the first heat, which gave Illya only a brief window of time in which to notify Headquarters of the change in plan. Beldon had been non too happy about the situation, but there was little he could do except grumble.

“I'm disappointed in you, Mr. Kuryakin,” was all he deigned to say, and then it was time for the competitors to be called to the starting blocks.

It had been decided that Illya would swim the opening leg, giving his three teammates ample time to erase any deficit he might incur with a poor swim. Fortunately, the heat was not a difficult one and, barring a disaster, the team was expected to make it through to the semis. Denis Cullen would swim the second leg, Theo Stanhope the third, and Jaspar Endicott the anchor leg.

“David Finchley,” the announcer called.

Illya stepped forward to mild applause, and nodded politely to the crowd. Napoleon, watching from the bleachers, stared down at the junior agent in surprise.

“Take your marks.”

The horn sounded. Illya leapt from the blocks, executing a perfect entry into the pool. He swam with long, clean strokes, cutting through the water with surprising grace. At the hundred meter mark, he was in contention. When he touched the wall at the end of two-hundred meters, he had given his teammates a slight lead. The crowd went wild. His three teammates did their jobs as well, and by the end of the heat, the British Team found themselves comfortably in first.

“Good God, Davey,” Endicott laughed. “Who knew a scrawny little fellow like you could swim so fast?”

“Anyone who has ever tried to catch me,” Illya smirked, zipping the jacket of his warmup suit. He looked around for his sneakers.

Just then, an object -- something round and shiny, Illya thought -- was thrown out of the bleachers. It landed in the pool with a loud splash, and sank swiftly to the bottom. The four men turned to look.

“What was that?” Theo said.

“Looks like some tyke threw a ball into the water,” Denis replied with a trace of irritation. “A good thing there wasn't a race going on.”

“Hey,” Endicott remarked uncertainly, “what's happening to the water?”

At the bottom of the pool, the sphere had begun to glow. As they watched, the surface of the water heaved up and started to bubble, spewing forth a strange, yellowish-green ether. The mist rose, swirling, and began to drift toward the bleachers, clinging low to the ground --

“ _Chyort!”_ Illya swore. _“_ Chlorine gas! Napoleon, get these people out of here!”

Someone screamed.

Illya shoved his shocked teammates through the locker room door.

“I say, old chap! What do you --?”

“Quiet!” he snapped. “Listen to me. That is chlorine gas in there. It is deadly. We must find a way to neutralize it in the next five minutes, or people are going to start dying.”

The three men stared, wide-eyed with fear. “H-how?” Endicott stammered.

Illya fished a bright yellow card from the pocket of his warmup suit, and handed it to Denis Cullen. “Go to the Administration Office,” he instructed. “Call the number on this card. Tell them we need help.”

Cullen stared.

“Go!

The man took off, running.

“Jaspar, Theo, follow me.” He snatched up a handful of towels and jogged down the long hallway.

“Where are we going?” Endicott asked breathlessly.

“Maintenance. We need to find the air conditioning system and shut it down.”

“But -- won't that keep the gas from dissipating? What about all those people in there?”

“If the gas is allowed to vent out into the environment, it will kill anyone who breathes it.”

“But the people --” Endicott repeated.

“I have friends in there, helping to evacuate the spectators,” Illya replied, hoping fervently that it was true, that Napoleon was not already lying among the dead.

They reached the Maintenance Room; Illya pushed the men inside, locking the door behind them. “Jaspar, look for the air conditioning control panel. Shut the system down, and close all the vents. Theo, take these towels and pack them under the door. We need to keep this area free of gas.”

The men hurried to obey. Meanwhile, Illya located the controls for the emergency sprinkler system, and twisted the valve to the 'on' position. “Fresh water neutralizes chlorine gas,” he explained as he worked.

“But -- how do you know all this?” Endicott asked.

Illya ignored the question. “Do you see the roof controls anywhere?”

“Um --” Endicott looked at the vast array of dials and switches. “Here?”

Illya smiled reassuringly. “Good work.” He threw the switch, and they heard the grating sound that told them the retractable roof was opening. “The ultraviolet rays in sunlight will help to neutralize the gas as well.”

“Davey?”

Illya spared a quick glance.

“You're -- not really with the British Swim Team, are you?”

He sighed. “No.”

“And your accent -- Russian?”

 _Chyort, he had forgotten!_ I am Soviet, yes.”

The Brit's fists clenched. “So you're a spy! I knew it! Did your people do this? Are we under attack?”

Illya turned to face his teammate. “We are under attack, but not by any government. A group of evil, soulless men is responsible for this act. I belong to an organization that is trying to stop them.” He locked the controls in place. “And now, forgive me, but I must leave you for a time. My friends need my help.”

“You're going back out there? But the gas --?”

“It will be alright, I promise.” He turned to Theo. “Tell me, do they teach scuba classes at this facility?”

Theo understood immediately. “Yes. Yes, they do! I took a beginner's class when I was here for World's last year. The tanks are stored in a closet at the end of the hallway.”

“Then we are in luck.” Illya unlocked the Maintenance Room's steel door, and peered out. The floor was flooded, and water continued to rain down from the sprinklers, but there was no gas. The locker room doors had protected them. He drew his Walther. “Stay here until I come back for you. Do not let anyone in.”

Endicott swallowed, and nodded. “Good luck.”

Illya gave a swift wave, and splashed off down the corridor.   

*/*/*/   

The equipment in the storage closet looked as though it had seen better days. Illya strapped on a dented scuba tank, checking the gauge carefully to be certain it was full. He slung a second tank over his shoulder, grabbed a handful of masks, and backed out of the closet.

At the last second, some sixth sense made him turn. Two THRUSH in gas masks had rounded the corner, and were preparing to fire. He raised his Walther, and shot them without hesitation. 

When it was clear that no other THRUSH were coming to their aid, Illya slogged back down the water-soaked corridor, and knocked on the Maintenance Room door. “You can come out now.”

Endicott opened the door, relief etched upon his face. “We heard shots.”

“It is taken care of.” Illya handed him the spare tank and a pair of face masks. “You will need these in order to cross through the natatorium.”

Except for the sound of the water pouring down from the sprinkler system, the building was utterly silent. They reached the Administration Office without incident, and Illya glanced in to be sure that the fourth member of their team, Denis Cullen, had gotten safely away. The room was empty. The locker room was deserted as well.

“Put on the masks,” Illya ordered. “Make sure the seal is tight. Breathe only from your tank.”

The men did as instructed, and he opened the door leading to the pool.

Illya's first thought was one of relief – the natatorium was empty, except for the bodies of a pair of THRUSH henchmen sprawled upon the concrete floor. The men had been shot cleanly through the heart. Their skin, Illya saw, was horribly blistered from the gas. He stepped over the bodies, motioning for the others to follow his lead. After a sight hesitation, they did so.

They pushed through the exit doors onto the _piazza._

It was like stumbling into another world. The square was engulfed in chaos, people crying and shouting in a dozen different languages. A few of the most seriously injured lay on the ground, where they were being attended to by UNCLE emergency personnel. Others sat half-naked in the _piazza's_ gaily splashing fountain. A group in various states of undress knelt by the edge of the nearby Tiber River, diligently rinsing the chemicals from their skin. Vendors from the nearby shops hurried to and fro, bringing jugs of water and clean cloths to the victims.

Illya and his teammates removed their masks and took deep, gulping breaths. The air was wonderfully clean and sweet. “I never knew fresh air could smell so good,” Endicott sighed.

They spotted Denis Cullen kneeling beside a little girl, helping one of the emergency doctors to splint her ankle. They hurried to his side, and the three men embraced like long-lost brothers.

“Illya!”

He turned, seeking the source of the sound.

"Over here!" Napoleon sat on the back bay of a fire truck, stripped to his undershorts, an oxygen mask covering the lower half of his face. His hands were wrapped in white gauze, and his eyes were horribly bloodshot, but otherwise he seemed unharmed. Illya limped to his side.

“You look terrible,” he said.

Behind the mask, Napoleon smiled. “Gee, thanks. Are all Russians so free with their compliments?”

“Oh, Napoleon, I did not mean --”

Napoleon held up a hand. “Just kidding. Anyway, your feet don't look much better than my eyes.”

“My -- feet?” Illya looked down. The soles of his bare feet were bloodied and beginning to blister. “I -- I could not find my sneakers,” he said, a bit dizzily as, with the realization of his injury, the pain kicked in.

“Sit down,” Napoleon said. “That's an order. _Dottore,_ I believe I've found your next customer.”

Illya sat obediently beside the senior agent while the doctor bathed his bare feet and applied an ointment. Illya gasped as the soothing balm began its work.

“Quick thinking back there,” Napoleon said. “Your little trick with the sprinklers gave us time to get everyone out of the building. We have five or six people with chemical burns, one child with a broken ankle, and a dozen in respiratory distress, but no fatalities. It could have been much worse.”

“Your Mr. Solo is a hero,” the doctor said. “He went back inside half a dozen times to rescue the victims.”

 _“Sì, sì,”_ chimed an elderly balloon vendor. “I give-a him alla my balloon. He's-a use balloon to -- _come si dice_ \-- breathe inna _stadio._ Clever, no?”

Illya smiled. “Clever, yes.”

Around them, a sense of calm was returning to the _piazza_ as the victims of the attack were escorted to waiting ambulances. An UNCLE cleanup crew was already inside the building, working to dissipate the chlorine gas, and removing the bodies of the four THRUSH slain during the attack. Reporters rushing to the scene had been told of a gas leak caused by a ruptured pipe under the stadium; the _carabinieri_ kept them well away from the site.

“I don't know about you,” Napoleon said as they watched the last ambulance pull away, “but I'm bushed. I can't wait to hit the sack.

“A noble intention, I am sure. Only --”

“Only -- what?”

“What about the end-of-mission report?”

“Seriously? After what we've been through, I think it can wait till morning.”

Illya cocked his head. “And who will explain to Waverly and Beldon why the reports are late?”

Napoleon's face fell. “Hmm, I see your point. Maybe you'd better take care of it, _tovarisch._ I'm pretty sure your typing skills are better than mine at the moment.” He held up his bandaged hands for emphasis.

Illya sighed dramatically. “Fine. I will type up your report for you, Napoleon, but just this once.”

“Of course,” Napoleon replied smiling. “Just this once.”  

*/*/*/   

**Saturday, August 27 th**  

Alexander Waverly arrived on the UNCLE jet the following morning. He was joined by Harry Beldon, looking positively Byzantine in a tapestry-woven long coat and velvet tam. Both men were anxious to hear the details of what had turned out to be an eventful day in Rome.

“So, gentlemen,” Waverly began rather smugly, “you managed to save the day after all. Good to know that our Section Two agents can rise to the occasion.”

Napoleon concealed a smile. “Sir,” he said, glancing to his left, “I'd like to point out that Agent Kuryakin deserves much of the credit for the success of this mission. “He was the one who thought to turn on the sprinkler system, neutralizing the chlorine gas.”

“I'm well aware of that, Mr. Solo.” Waverly turned to the Russian. “Fine work, young man. Then again, I expected no less from an agent of your caliber and training. Mr. Beldon here has done an excellent job of honing your skills.”

Beldon drained his snifter of brandy, and belched. “It certainly was was lucky you happened to be in the building,” he observed gruffly. “Things would have turned out very differently if you had gone to Naples.”

“Now, now, Mr. Beldon, Waverly replied pleasantly. “We all make mistakes in judgment from time to time. No need to speak further of it.”

An awkward pause ensued, during which Beldon seized the decanter and poured himself another brandy.

Waverly peered at the two agents over the top of his spectacles. “So -- not a new weapon, but an old one, eh gentlemen?”

Napoleon frowned. “Sir?”

“Have you forgotten, Mr. Solo? Chlorine gas was used to devastating effect in World War I. It was more common even than mustard gas, owing to the ease with which it could be made. Thousands of soldiers died from inhaling it. The unfortunate ones who survived suffered from debilitating respiratory ailments, disfiguring burns, and even blindness. Theirs was a slow and painful death.”

“But this was different,” Napoleon observed thoughtfully. “It wasn't a gas attack, _per se._ THRUSH actually found a way to convert the chlorine in the pool back into gaseous form, using some sort of catalyst.”

Waverly nodded. “The sphere, yes. Our people recovered it from the bottom of the pool. Researchers are analyzing the contents even as we speak.”

“Is it possible THRUSH will make another attempt?” Illya asked.

“Here in Rome? I doubt it. More than likely, they'll run off somewhere to lick their wounds like the dogs that they are, and try again somewhere else.”

Beldon rose with a grunt. “If we're done here, Alexander, I'll be going. Sir Winston is waiting for my report.”

“Hmm? Yes, by all means. Give him my best.”

The sliding doors parted, and Beldon lumbered through.

Waverly stared after him. “A complicated man,” he sighed. He turned to the two agents. “You gentlemen seem to have worked quite well together on this Affair.”

Napoleon and Illya traded glances. “I think it's safe to say that, Sir.”

“That's very good news. You see, I've been considering certain modifications to our mission policy for awhile now. My idea is to use pairs of agents, rather than one single operative, for future missions. Your success has given me quite a lot to think about.”

He shuffled the papers before him. “Well, Mr. Kuryakin, now that this Affair is concluded, I expect you'll want to get some rest before your semifinal race.”

Illya looked up in surprise. “Race?”

“Didn't someone tell you? You're still scheduled to compete.” Waverly raised his eyebrows. “Can't leave your teammates in the lurch now, can you?” He consulted his copy of the schedule. “Your heat starts in -- good Heavens -- less than two hours! You'd better hurry.”

And with that, he turned toward the new message coming in on the Telex, leaving the two men to contemplate the ebb and flow of their fate.

 

*/*/*/  
  


 

 

 

*Author's Note: In my version of their lives, Illya and Napoleon met for the first time in _Graduation Day._ There is both a Gen and a Slash version of that story.

 


End file.
